Double Date
by cupcake-999
Summary: This is in answer to a prompt: John is sick and tired of Sherlock 'showing up' / ruining his dates   and tells him he can only come along if he brings a date of his own...
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Double Date

**Author**: Cupcake-999

**Sherlock/John**. Rated M as I don't really understand the ratings.

**Summary**: This was in answer to my own prompt at sherlockbbc_fic. I can't figure out how to post it there. If anyone could help me, brilliant.

**Prompt**: John is sick and tired of Sherlock 'showing up' / ruining his dates (with Sarah?) and tells him he can only come along if he brings a date of his own. So Sherlock has to find a date (Molly?) to take. What happens? Trying to 'out-date' each other?

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. These characters do not belong to me.**

**Chapter One**

John stomped up the seventeen stairs to the flat, slammed into the living room and glared down at his flatmate reclining on the sofa who opened one eye above steepled fingers.

"We're out of milk. I take it from the heavy tread of frustration that you once again failed to 'get off' with Sarah."

The other eye opened as John flung off his coat. The patrician head actually turned in his direction. And so it bloody should, thought John in a fit of the sulks. He wanted to throw _himself_ full length on the sofa in _his_ pyjamas and turn _his_ back for a change. He settled for looming, menacingly he hoped, before running his hands through his short hair.

"You've got to stop doing that, Sherlock!" he finally burst out.

'Doing what? Deducing the sadly humdrum state of your love life — or rather, lack thereof?' The deep rumble of the other man's voice failed to soothe him and his own rose in indignation.

"No, showing up and _ruining_ my humd–my love–my dates! Every bloody time! Sarah's only just agreed to give me a second chance after that last fiasco and you go and turn up again! Oh, don't give me that look. Behave. You know _exactly_ what I mean. That trendy new sushi bar, and you, and your knife-off with the chef – incidentally, how many people bring their own knives to a restaurant? – and then having to leg it from the police, and... Still gives me the shivers."

"I have to eat," Sherlock commented mildly.

"But that's just it — you don't!" John pointed a would-be accusatory finger in the direction of the sofa as he paced. 'You appear, sit yourself down, pick at my food, swig my drink, and criticise my choices! Then you say you're bored, and you're off. I should have guessed, tonight, though. I should have damn well known when the waiter brought me your favourite spaghetti dish instead of what I ordered."

"I was saving time, John. It would have taken too long to send your lasagne – why you insist on it I'll never know – back and order a fresh dish. I simply phoned ahead." All this with that oh-so-reasonable, what's-it-like-in-your-tiny-brain calm. "I was somewhat surprised to see Dr Sarah, however. What happened to office-worker Samantha?"

"You happened! Or rather that, that _thing_ happened! And that's another thing. You can't invite other people along on my dates. Especially not your gang of homeless urchins/informants."

"Even if they need a meal? What happened to all that 'caring' lark?"

John could feel the enamel chipping off his teeth and he fought to stop grinding them.

"Do you," he managed to spit out, "have any idea of the explaining I had to do after that well, _teenage rent boy_ plonked himself down at the table with us and said we owed him at least a meal after all the services he'd performed for us?"

Sherlock arched a brow at this, and John uncrossed his arms from his chest and tried to calm down.

"She still didn't believe me and she got her own back. I can't use that employment agency anymore. Not since the interview she sent me on for that high-powered pharmaceutical company position turned out to be for a rep for their skincare range. _Eww_!" John shuddered at the memory of first the waiting room and then the interview panel of young attractive girls smirking at him.

"I was sparing you wasted effort. It wouldn't have worked out. You only had to look at those appalling shoes she was wearing to know that."

"I don't know that! Look, that's what dating's for; it's a 'try it and see' thing. Something new, different company—"

Sherlock rose to his feet in one sharp-edged flow and John took a step back.

"And night after night I'm left here alone while you take another fruitless and not even amusing stab at sexual pick-n-mix. What if _I_ need company?"

"Where's the—"

"Mrs Hudson took it."

"Oh." John ignored the personal insults. After a month they'd ceased to register. But the skulllessness was a worry. God alone knew how Sherlock would fill the void. John sneaked a look around for any signs of disgusting experiments or fresh bullet holes and felt a pang of pity for his brilliant yet clueless friend.

"You don't have to stay in alone, you know. You could come out."

"And stop you 'getting off' – as if that were ever going to happen?"

"— if you brought a date. We could have a double date." The moment the rash words left his lips he felt faint. There was a buzzing in his ears – was he actually going to pass out? It wasn't just the words he'd so stupidly uttered, but the unholy quicksilver gleam which lit up Sherlock's eyes. A manic energy shot through the tall, gangly man and his black curls seemed to tousle even more artfully, alive with electricity. He clapped his hands together loudly, making John recoil and sink into a chair.

"Brilliant, John! I knew there was a reason I kept you around. You're in touch with all the trivia, all the mind-numbing, soul-crushing everyday social mores I'm far above. Your next pathetic attempt at courtship is via those tickets you purchased on the Internet, yes?"

John nodded, knowing better than to do anything as pointless as insert words like 'How did you know?' or any words at all, really, into the flow of Sherlock's monologue, which continued even as his flatmate dashed into his bedroom and rummaged around noisily. Stray phrases such as 'I've been observing data,' and 'There's a science at play here,' reached him. He flinched as Sherlock re-emerged, threw on his coat and scarf and loped to the front door.

"I'm off to get a date. Don't wait up."

He was hefting a large zipped-up bag into which he stuffed a cushion snatched off the sofa, after flexing it experimentally between his long-fingered hands. John thought it showed how long he'd been with Sherlock that his first thoughts of where the lanky sociopath might get a date were not of singles nights or speed dating, but of abduction, a van with blacked-out windows, and an experiment into Stockholm syndrome. He pointed weakly at the bag.

"Wait. D–do you have chloroform, a blindfold, handcuffs…a gag?"

Sherlock did the long, slanted, narrow-eyed look. "Bless you, John, but I don't come to you for dating advice. Although thank you for confirmation of your particular kink. I'd long suspected it but had little stomach for the surveillance which substantiation would require."

"No, no–I–stop! Where are you going to get a date?"

"Where else but the mortuary, John, the mortuary!" This trailed up the stairs in Sherlock's wake.

"Sherlock; you can't bring a bloody corpse on a date! This isn't _Weekend at Bernie's_; dates have to have a pulse or it's another area entirely! Sherlock! Oh, sorry, Mrs Hudson. Did we disturb you? Erm, cup of cocoa? Oh, we're out of milk, I believe. Perhaps you could…"

"I'm not your housekeeper; I'm your landlady, dear."


	2. Chapter 2

**itle**: Double Date

**Author**: Cupcake-999

**Sherlock/John**. Rated M as I don't really understand the ratings.

**Summary**: This was in answer to my own prompt at sherlockbbc_fic. I can't figure out how to post it there. If anyone could help me, brilliant.

**Prompt**: John is sick and tired of Sherlock 'showing up' / ruining his dates (with Sarah?) and tells him he can only come along if he brings a date of his own. So Sherlock has to find a date (Molly?) to take. What happens? Trying to 'out-date' each other?

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. These characters do not belong to me.**

**Chapter Two**

Sherlock lay back, breathing deeply and slowly, eyes closed. There came the sound and feel of the zipper being pulled down, then a high-pitched scream and a crash. He sat up, shrugging his shoulders out of the body bag, then jumped to his feet on the examination table shedding the bag, and leapt down in front of the young woman lying on the mortuary floor in a stained lab coat.

"Good evening, Molly. You're looking well." He extended a helping hand but she scrabbled back and to her feet, leaning on the desk behind her, never taking her eyes off him.

"Sherlock?"

He watched her pat ineffectually at her messy hair and suppressed a smirk. "I was waiting for you. I got bored as you took longer than I predicted so I indulged in some sensory deprivation to pass the time." He smiled broadly (_make atmosphere conducive to romance_) and Molly shrank back a little.

"How did you get in? What do you want?"

"The answer to both your questions lies here." She definitely flinched as he patted his groin area suggestively. _Draw attention to your body_. He withdrew a security pass from his trouser pocket. Hers.

"I found it and didn't want you to get into trouble." He'd stolen it, of course. And cloned it. "You've lost weight. Five pounds? Suits you, after putting it on during that 'office romance'. Be careful not to lose too much though, as if you get any more androgynous looking you'll only attract another closet gay." He frowned as she re-tied the elastic round her lank hair. "You can do better than that."

Molly's brow scrunched. "Are you working here tonight? There's no cases on. Oh, did you want body parts?"

"In a manner of speaking." He held out the cushion face up between both hands and advanced. A mix of a scream and a gurgle came from Molly as she leant backwards. "A little present for Toby." _Show interest in their lives._ Molly giggled weakly as she took it and clutched it to her, fingering the missing chunk. Mopped-up acid spill, Sherlock remembered.

"I want you. I've come to you for your help." He said the last in a soulful tone, staring at her lips. _Gaze at the part you want to kiss._

Molly asked hesitantly. "Have you hit your head, Sherlock?"

"Of course, as part of a series of experiments I was running with myself as the control, but not recently." Was this some part of the mating ritual he'd not come across?

"Ahh! So I'll draw some blood?"

"Has the world always been this kinky and I just haven't noticed? You don't talk about anything like this on your website, Molls." _Pet names. Important._

"I meant for a sample for a blood panel, for a toxicology work-up? You must have been in contact with a toxin, and it's affected your—" She stopped as she noticed Sherlock staring at her neck then paled as she met his eye. _Let them catch you looking._ He advanced on her and observed she shook a little and hyperventilated.

_It made sense now. She only saw him at night, never in the day. He was very pale. He hung around the mortuary. She let him help himself to stray organs and bags of blood. Her hands scratched the desk behind her as she fished for a weapon, a stake, a cross. Her fingers closed on a jar of wooden tongue depressors. _

"You're cold, Mollsy. Here." Sherlock shrugged out of his coat and started forcing Molly into it. Ha! It had taken John _ages_ to get to this point with Sarah. Although Sarah hadn't struggled, making sufficient pressure on her subclavian nerve to induce slight brachycardia but not syncope necessary for compliance. At least Sherlock hadn't thought at the time John had used this technique, but now he knew John was quite perverted… Nor had Sarah in John's stylish dark jacket looked like a startled scarecrow trussed in a comedy-length robe when Sherlock finished thrusting Molly's arms in and buttoning her up. "That's better?"

"Won't you be cold?" Molly's voice came from the depths of the turned-up collar.

"No. But I'm probably malnourished. I haven't eaten fresh food in a week," replied Sherlock.

"Oh, you poor thing! You have to take better care of yourself, Sherlock." _Elicit their concern over your well-being_. Samantha hadn't cared that John didn't get any dinner that night. "I could bring you a flask of home-made soup and a box of salad next time you come in to critique my dissection. Would that be nice?"

She recoiled a little more as he suddenly lassoed his scarf around her neck and tightened it. Should he give her his gloves? John didn't wear gloves, so he had no empirical data here. Why not. Molly stood still as he pulled them on her hands. Good. Already getting trained.

_Obviously he's not a vampire. I wish. Ooh, RPatz… God, I'm a mess. Too old to be a Twihard, too young for a Twimum. Plus I've got no kids. Toby doesn't count. Sherlock's trying to kill me. For an experiment. No, he's committed a crime and he's dressing me up as him as a decoy to fool the police while he flees. They'll be here any second. I'll buy him some time. No, that's stupid. I'm too short to trick anyone. He's committed a crime and he's getting my DNA on his things to leave–no, he's _going_ to commit a crime, and—_

"Molly-wolly, you're quite low brow, wouldn't you say? No, not your face, in your tastes, woman. You like these music concerts in the park things, yes? Outdoors?"

"Well," Molly replied hesitantly, "I've got tickets for Reading. Jim and I—"

"Sell them, whatever they are," Sherlock ordered. "Listen. This weekend, open air orchestral concert at Hampton Court, last night of the festival. Your mouth looks strange hanging open like that, by the way. There'll be champagne. A blanket. Fireworks at the climax."

"You're very confident of your abilities, Sherlock." Molly giggled and blushed, clasping a hand to her chest.

"No, no. Real fireworks at the concert finale, woman." He tried to prevent himself rolling his eyes as her blush deepened.

"I'm not sure I understand. Are you asking me out? On a date?" Amazing how high her voice could squeak, Sherlock thought. Pretty soon only dolphins would be able to decode it. That could be an interesting experiment. Worth remembering.

"No; I'm telling you. Friday night. I'll pick you up and take care of the picnic. Make sure you blend your foundation in properly and wear a slightly darker shade of lipstick than usual, _please_. Oh, and get your hair blow dried straight so it looks fuller. John's bringing Sarah. She's a natural redhead, creamy skin, wears form-fitting clothes which emphasise her bust. Is that enough to work with?"

"What should I wear?"

"Good thinking, better not leave it to chance. Your track record with accessories… I'll be round to inspect your wardrobe first thing in the morning. We can remedy any defects then. Toast and tea is fine for breakfast. Honey only if homemade. Oh, and wear the coat and scarf Friday." With a final strained smile he swirled around to leave.

"Wait! Don't you need a coat? It's freezing out."

"Got it covered. Bye, erm, Moll-moll." Sherlock yanked an identical coat and scarf ensemble out of his bag, shrugged them on and zoomed away. He was always prepared.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: Double Date

**Author**: Cupcake-999

**Sherlock/John**. Rated M as I don't really understand the ratings.

**Summary**: This was in answer to my own prompt at sherlockbbc_fic. I can't figure out how to post it there. If anyone could help me, brilliant.

**Prompt**: John is sick and tired of Sherlock 'showing up' / ruining his dates (with Sarah?) and tells him he can only come along if he brings a date of his own. So Sherlock has to find a date (Molly?) to take. What happens? Trying to 'out-date' each other?

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. These characters do not belong to me. This has run away from me. I bless the stress of A level results.  
**

**Chapter Three**

"Yes, Mycroft, as soon as you told him it was _very_ top secret, he was all over it like white on rice."

A newly-woken-from-fretful-slumber John dabbed his brow with the Union Jack cushion and held his mobile away to stare at it, mouthing _white on rice_? The horrible thing was he didn't have to question where he'd picked up such an expression. Sherlock had started speaking if not in tongues, then in some strange code or slang. No doubt it was for a case, but he'd even started texting differently. Only yesterday John had texted him they were out of milk, to receive the reply, _Srsly? That's random. I can haz milk? LOL. L8tz. SH._

"And where exactly is that errant brother of mine right now, hmm?"

Mycroft scared him so John started babbling. "Right right now? This second? Leg work. I mean field work. Research. He said." At least, Sherlock had been saying that a lot, recently.

"Would it surprise it to know that he is in fact giving it fearful on the dance floor of Boujis, Dr Watson?"

Was Mycroft drunk? Was this some sort of sly recruitment test for MI whatever? Wait, that name… John felt for the high society magazine Sherlock had kicked under his chair–Ow! Was that a _sword_?–and stared at the social column page it lay open at and over which he was now bleeding.

"Why do you suppose he would have gone to a trendy South Kensington nightclub, doctor?"

"To 'enjoy the devilishly delicious Crack Baby cocktails, two for the price of one before midnight except on Tuesdays'?" John ventured.

There was a long, slow inhale. Obviously not the right answer.

"We're both going to pretend you didn't say that. Can you do that? Good. Now stand up and walk to Sherlock's door. Are you there? Open it."

"There's a keypad. I don't—"

"Try the date of the Battle of Bosworth. You know that whole Richard the Third thing Sherlock has… It's 2808, doctor. No use? Try 1485. Yes? Are you in?"

"Just a second!" John felt warily for traps. When no guillotine sliced down, or giant boulder shot towards him, he advanced a few centimetres over the threshold. He'd never been in here before. The sanctum sanctorum. The holy of holies. Actually, more like the black hellhole of Calcutta—

"Focus, dear doctor. Is there a board filled with his research? There always is when he's engaged on a case."

"Yes, there's a whole wall full of findings," John said slowly and in a whisper. "I'll get him to text you. I swear. Bye." Because he had to examine this data for himself. It was well bloody random. He took a minute to fetch a torch, and played it over the room, not wanting to fumble for the light switch. There was no bed. Where did Sherlock sleep? Hanging upside down from the ceiling in a Chinese escapology sack? Catching himself flicking the torch upward to check for hooks, John stopped and breathed in and out, calmly, deeply. Obviously that explained why his flatmate kipped – when he did sleep – on the sofa, or stretched out on the living room floor. _Please don't let there be decomposing body parts. Or entire bodies._

His focus was a huge board divided into two, one side headed with a cross, subheading How Not to Date and the other with a tick and How to Date. The board was festooned with photos, _surveillance_ photos – Anderson/Donovan, Donovan/Lestrade, Lestrade/Dimmock …wait. Sherlock must have misinterpreted. The whole of Scotland Yard couldn't be engaged in some localised, workplace version of _La Ronde_, could it? John/Carla – that had been ages ago! Where were the photos from? Was Mycroft-and why was John on the bloody How Not to side?

John shone his torch on the board to read the acerbic captions written next to the pictures. "The moment it went wrong: John checking out the waitress, unidentified female companion checking her watch." His unsteady hands swung the torch beam to the other side. "The moment it kicked up a notch: Dimmock showing interest, leaning in to Lestrade's personal space, Lestrade undoing top shirt button." He shuddered.

John ignored the pictures of celebrities; some cut from the pile of glossy magazines which had begun appearing in the flat over the last few days, even the interesting looking ones of what he thought was a younger member of the royal family with his blonde snub-nosed girlfriend. On the How To section. Huh. He caught a glimpse of a mini editing suite, and several films, labelled with the names of people he knew. His shaking hands slotted one into the player and after he wished he'd found actual porn, rather than Sherlock's dispassionate David Attenborough style voice-over dissecting the minute-by-minute of a Donovan/Dimmock date. The phrase "The look of concentration on his face at this point is almost savage in its intensity," still rang in his ears as he quit the room, feeling somehow dirty, and settled in his chair, waiting for his MIA flatmate.

Raucous voices and a beeping car horn jolted him from a half sleep and he shot to the window. The street lamp showed him a tall thin figure pouring itself out of a long black car to vomit on the pavement. A tallish well-built brunette slid out beside him and held his curls out of the way for him as he hurled.

Cries of "Chunder party!" went up from the open door of the surely official car and a second tall but red-haired figure fell out, to vomit alongside the first. Windows were flung open along the street and a chorus of "Do you know what time it is?" and "Can you keep it down?" rang out from outraged residents to be greeted with. "Oh, do eff orf," from faces as yet unseen.

A third tall man stuck his receding-hairline head out of the car as several black-suited men went to help the first two. "Chunder brothers!" his deep well-bred tones sang out. A blonde girl was laughing alongside him and a brown-haired girl sitting in the car turned her head away. The redhead and bloody hell, Sherlock! exchanged a fist bump. "L8tz, Holmsey."

"Safe, blud." The first girl mopped Sherlock's face with a tissue and got a hard, clumsy hug and a kiss which missed in return. Then the bodyguards helped Sherlock to the door and opened it for him before driving away with what John, after flicking frantically through a glossy magazine, was pretty sure were at least two heirs to the throne. Eventually Sherlock reached the flat, and John swung the door open to see him swaying, looking most unlike himself in a stained pink shirt, dark blue jeans and brown brogues, an idiot grin on his flushed face.

"Well?" John was trying not to sound like a housewife, but…

"Boujis was book!" came the unnecessarily loud reply.

"Book?"

"Predictive text speak*. Why did you never tell me about flavoured vodka? Why did you keep it from me?"

And the lanky man concertinaed in on himself. John was just able to help him crumple to the floor where he lay twitching along to a technobeat only he could hear.

"You are going to feel awful tomorrow. Maybe your friend, Lady—" A frenzied search of two magazines failed to reveal her identity so John continued "Whatever can come and look after you then!"

But when he came down in the morning the space on the carpet was vacant and his flatmate had left. _Typical_. _Bet he doesn't get hangovers_. John imagined Sherlock's long frame simply uncurling itself from the floor, like a film of him falling to the ground being reversed, and wondered where the idiot had gone now and what excuses of his would fob off Mycroft and Lestrade.

*cool


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Chapter 4**

**Title**: Double Date

**Author**: Cupcake-999

**Sherlock/John**. Rated T as I don't really understand the ratings.

**Summary**: This was in answer to my own prompt at sherlockbbc_fic. I can't figure out how to post it there. If anyone could help me, brilliant.

**Prompt**: John is sick and tired of Sherlock 'showing up' / ruining his dates (with Sarah?) and tells him he can only come along if he brings a date of his own. So Sherlock has to find a date (Molly?) to take. What happens? Trying to 'out-date' each other?

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. These characters do not belong to me. This has run away from me. I bless the stress of A level results.**

**Chapter Four**

Yes, he'd choose this workspace again, Sherlock decided. It was much better than any public or medical library he'd worked at, for instance. Here white-coated minions brought him a supply of iced water, tea, coffee, blackcurrant vodka and a wide selection of upmarket glossy mags in various European languages. He had a comfy recliner chair with a swinging round tray attachment big enough to spread his work out, as much privacy as he wanted and a lot to observe and deduce. There weren't as many chemical supplies available if he had to perform analysis, but never mind. Yes, he would definitely recommend it here.

Lucky he'd made such a timely perusal of Molly's wardrobe. Both it and her personal grooming had been lacking; hence this world-famous department store with its personal stylists and shoppers and accommodating day spa. Even luckier, Mother was a member. He hadn't known Mycroft came here! He was half-tempted to tap into the software and see what treatments his brother had. His roots touched up, that was for sure. But Sherlock was too settled to move and his partner-in-spa was in the neighbouring chair.

"So you see Molls, correlating these photos of Sarah's, erm," he trawled his newly acquired lexis, "shagrags in her wardrobe with stills from this CCTV footage from her building foyer showing how she rotates the outfits, and cross-referencing it with the weather forecast for Friday evening tells us she'll be wearing this one. You don't want her to outshine you, so all we have to do is get you something in the same style but slightly better. Result."

Molly squinted an eye down. "We could do that, if that's the way you want to go. Or..."

"Or?"

"Why let her lead? We could throw down first and hard."

Sherlock felt ashamed at the jolt of arousal he experienced at hearing the mild Molly use the language of gambling inside such a pristine place.

"Go on. Follow that line through."

"I'm thinking classic Hepburn revisited. I'm tall and thin enough now, what with losing weight after Jim—to pull off retro cavalry twill pants and shearling-lined boots. Twinned with some sort of structured jacket top in a dark colour I'd be bang on-trend for the Amelia Earhart look. With that new film coming out?"

A startled Sherlock quickly cross-checked this with runway trends and new season predictions from the magazines in front of him. Molly's eyebrow thread woman nodded in agreement, as did their personal liaison minion hovering nearby.

"Teamed with an oversized chunky gold square-cut necklace and bracelet to suggest that it's not all work and no play, you mean?"

"Duh," replied Molly. "And you could get a fitted anthracite grey shirt. Then we'd match and your eyes would really pop. Oh, not like your microwave experiment! Don't look so shocked. I'm not just about draining bodily fluids and unravelling choke ligatures. I'm a woman as well."

"I see that now. Especially with you wearing clothes."

Their personal assistant coughed and asked if Molly was ready for her manicure and eyelash tinting. She was. Sherlock scanned the range of treatments available for men.

"I have Karen available…"

"Or me!"

Sherlock eyed the petite brunette and the spiky haired man and examined his hands then his face in a mirror. "Perhaps both," he decided. That way he could observe twice as much at the same time. "Molly, about tonight's dry run…"

It was early evening when Sherlock arrived home. John, dressed in his shirt-and-tie work clothes was pacing, rehearsing speeches and ultimatums. He watched his flatmate wrestle an armful of department store carrier bags through the living room at light speed, too quick for John to halt his progress, managing to throw John a complex hand salute-greeting-thing before he slinked into his room. Was he checking his live web feed to the chimpanzee house at the zoo and making notes, the doctor wondered.

"Sherlock! We have to talk. It's srs – I mean serious. Come out." He swung around quickly, averting his eyes as Sherlock emerged halfway through changing his clothes.

"Chillax, John. Spill."

John blocked that out and spilt. "Your brother is phoning me. Lestrade is texting me. Do people assume I morph into you when you're not around? I don't understand. How have I become the problem solver, the detective, by default? It doesn't work like that. This must be how Nicky Hilton feels when she has to cover for Paris when she flakes."

"Or Dina Lohan having to show up when Lindsey's 'indisposed'."

Both men turned to glare at the pile of horrifically addictive gossip magazines and wished the other would burn them.

"Sherlock, are you wearing _mascara_?"

"As if. Emo is well dead. Can't stay; new chick-lit book launch then after-party at Mahiki."

"How can you even—"

"Don't sweat. I'm on the guest list. 8tz."

John gave it all he'd got. He hadn't wanted to do this, but he'd activated a pre-arranged signal. "Mycroft is on his way right now to collect you for a briefing on the Ministry case. He'll be at the door any second."

"Cheers for the heads-up. You're solid. I'm bailing out the back."

"It wasn't a warning. Wait, we don't have a back—aghh! Careful!"

Sherlock was squeezing his lean frame out of the tiny kitchen window. "Don't wait up," reached John's ears, followed by a woman's scream. John heard: "Mrs Hudson, you're hallucinating. Too many herbal soothers." Huh. Sherlock wasn't in too much of a rush not to try some hypnotism on his way out.

The doorbell rang and John groaned long and loud. He lied to himself that maybe tonight was the night Anthea would accept his invitation to go out on a date. She'd almost remembered his name last time, so…

That fiction would prevent him thinking about the uncomfortable stint booked after that at the Yard, where he'd have to pretend to be calling an ill-in-bed Sherlock for his opinions and instructions as he himself was forced to sit in on the latest updating and brainstorming for the murder case. Anderson would just love it, he thought savagely. Yet he'd decided to go this route after his previous stratagem of pretending Sherlock was on his way and simply sitting around waiting had fallen flat. This pretend illness was a way to stop Lestrade sending squad cars out to look for the missing consulting detective.

It would work, this faux phone-a-friend tactic, he told himself. All he had to do was think What Would Sherlock Do? John kind of hoped the answer would be 'connect right fist to Anderson's over-long nose with brute force'. There, that image would see him through. Wouldn't it?


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Chapter 5**

**Title**: Double Date

**Author**: Cupcake-999

**Sherlock/John**. Rated T as I don't really understand the ratings.

**Summary**: This was in answer to my own prompt at sherlockbbc_fic. I can't figure out how to post it there. If anyone could help me, brilliant.

**Prompt**: John is sick and tired of Sherlock 'showing up' / ruining his dates (with Sarah?) and tells him he can only come along if he brings a date of his own. So Sherlock has to find a date (Molly?) to take. What happens? Trying to 'out-date' each other?

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. These characters do not belong to me. This has completely run away from me.**

**Chapter Five**

"Put Allah on loudspeaker, Mohamed," was the first wisecrack, when John was trying the "I'll just call Sherlock," gambit in the briefing room.

"Oh, he can only whisper because of the laryn-wisdom tooth. Sherlock says—"

"Put your hands on your head?" This from Anderson. It had led to an impromptu game of 'Sherlock Says' complete with dance moves, which soon degenerated into the Time Warp.

A day later, standing in the beautiful garden listening to classical music in the early evening breeze, John shuddered at the memory. He had a feeling this would soon be his _only_ memory. Any pleasant ones he might once have had had been torn asunder by yesterday's humiliation.

"Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!" Dimmock had yelled, when Sherlock/John had suggested getting access to the suspect's Internet history. OK, so he'd read that in Detecting for Dummies on the cab ride in, but it was still a good idea.

The most horrifying part had occurred as he'd attempted to relay the gist of his third 'conversation' with the absent genius. Donovan had pointed at him and his phone, then at her three male companions and cried out hysterically "Once upon a time there were three little girls who went to a police academy. And they were each assigned very hazardous duties," bringing the entire room, no, station, to a frenzy as they fought to be Jill Munroe and dived for the Internet to look up other Angels. Abandoning stoicism to yell in his turn, "Oy! Bosley says shut it!" had achieved nothing. The image of Lestrade, Anderson, and Dimmock striking the classic three-girls-with-guns pose was burned into his retinas; it had pinged into place when he'd tried to sleep.

Whatever this evening brought, thought John, it couldn't be as bad as that. Sarah had agreed to give him a final chance…

"Oww! Let go, John!" Obviously he shouldn't have grabbed his date's arm with such a death grip, but in his own defence, he'd just caught sight of Sherlock striding towards them, followed by a clone. He'd bloody had himself cloned. And it had gone wrong. John shook himself free of the nightmare, regretted his lack of sleep and realized his friend was in fact accompanied by a girl. Dressed like him. He and Sarah had time for one puzzled look at each other before the spectacle was upon them. Molly?

"Ah, John. Sarah. Mwaah, mwahh. Do you know my Molly-wolly? This is—"

"Sick." Sherlock whipped his head round to John, who was nodding at a stain on Molly's Sherlock-coat.

"Oh, I chundered over the side of the boat and the wind blew it back," she giggled nervously, one eye on her tall companion.

"Yes, Mollsy neglected to mention the motion sickness. No problem in the limo, but the private water taxi proved too much. Still…" Was it John's imagination or did Sherlock's slender finger make an imaginary chalk mark on an even more imaginary air blackboard? He definitely wasn't imagining the signal Sherlock gave to his date just before he unbuttoned his coat and Molly slipped that ridiculous coat off to reveal clothes which made Sarah gasp.

"Is that D and G?" she asked.

"Yes," replied Sherlock, preening a little.

"Burberry Prorsum," said Molly and John had a sudden savage thought that the pair, who now seemed to look alike, although how he didn't know, deserved each other. They should be forced to live together in a house with Molly's cat and Sherlock's skull until only one emerged the victor, standing over a pile of bloodied corpses, like Big Brother. Wait, those weren't the rules. Well, they should be. He knew who he'd vote for.

"Molly, you know John. Sarah, Molly."

"Mwaah, mwahh," came from Molly and John's eyes rolled back in his head.

"You know Sherlock and Molly, but do you know Merlock?"

Sarah was clutching him for support now but he was just as puzzled.

"It's our couple moniker. Like Bennifer."

"Or Brangelina!"

"Everyone knows us as Merlock. Don't you have a couple name?" And Sherlock chalked up another spectral point.

"Well, Sherly—"

"Merlock." The low voice buzzed with ire.

"I have to queue up for the picnic basket. Oh, didn't you reserve one? You won't be able to get one now."

"Oh no, I didn't. But I did do this." And a snap of those maddening fingers brought forth a butler, a sodding butler for God's sake, who busied himself unpacking a huge basket as John dashed away. When he returned the area was marked off with some of sort of flambeaux, a feast lay spread on a rug, and Molly was seemingly surgically attached to Sherlock. Sarah helped him set out their much more humble fare in silence.

"I didn't know you were, er, that you, liked this sort of music," Sarah trailed off.

"Oh, I've got ear plugs in case it's too hellish. Recommended by the Hells Angel Motorcycle Club of America. John got them online."

"I do not!"

"Yes, you did. In a manner of speaking. My card's completely maxed out we've been on the lash so much this week."

"Yah, he's known as Flash Gordon. Lash Gordon!" chimed in Molly and received a quelling glance for her slip-up.

That explained it. Mind control. He had her hypnotized. Like, oh, who was that man, with his girl, "Trilby! Erm, you should wear a trilby, with that."

"Really, John? Or perhaps an urchin cap? Tut-tut."

"Yeah, Dickensian cheek is so last year." And the gruesome twosome exchanged a superior chuckle and John thought forcible living together was too good for them. They should be forced to get married, in a huge, public, church wedding. Mycroft could give the bride away. It should be televised…

He busied himself cutting a slice of quiche for Sarah, his knife squeaking angrily against the plate, and holding out a forkful for her to try. Immediately Sherlock started forcefeeding his date, and Molly, who already had a mouthful of food, choked a little. Sherlock thumped her on the back and when this did nothing, flowed to his feet and performed a seamless Heimlich manoeuver. The butler unobtrusively cleaned up Molly's projectile. Sherlock shot John a look which promised vengeance.

"Mini-break!" yelled Sherlock suddenly and the other three jumped. "We've got the sweetest away fixture planned for next weekend. "Val. I know; it's totally Chelsea-on-Skis, but Guy broke up with Allegra – again - so he flaked, so we said we're in."

"Random," replied John.

"Have you two been together long?" asked Sarah.

"Yonks," "For our sins," came two too-pat answers. "Oh, look what I had done for our ahemversary." And Sherlock undid a few buttons on his new shirt and revealed a tattoo, a damn tattoo, saying 'Merlock' around his left nipple. There was a dizzying silence in which John felt all the air being sucked out of the atmosphere and he hoped, really hoped, that a) Molly would not follow suit and b) he would faint and be left unconscious on the ground. He had no idea how much time had passed, at what stage the concert had reached, even if music was playing. He was stuck in some hellish vacuum-prison.

"How did you meet?" After an ice age of silence Sarah's voice came in a defeated whisper.

"Oh, we have the best ever cute-meet story. Tell them, Mollster."

"I was in the mortuary one night—"

"Properly! Like we pract – go on."

And so John sat through Molly telling a hilarious and long anecdote, prompted and corrected by Sherlock, who ended with, "Remind me. How did you two meet?"

"I interviewed John for a locum position in the surgery."

The words Game, Set and Match hung unsaid in the air and John snapped. A red mist descended over him and he gave vent to all the anger and venom which had been building up since Sherlock had started on this, this, whatever it was, no, since he'd moved in with the madman. He shot to his feet.

"Stop it, just stop it. I can't take any more of this fauxmance crap and it's cruel to Molly. You've really flipped. This mind control thing is just wrong. When she speaks, I look to see if your lips are moving. When she moves, I watch where your hands are! Was it so important to you, to 'win' this—"

"What? Is this true? You didn't really want to date me? It's some sick contest you two have? I only went along with the 'improvement scheme' to help you after you explained Sarah was a complete bitch to you because you rejected her and so she latched on to John in revenge!" Molly was on her feet and Sarah also jumped up.

"You deranged bastard. Bastards. That's it from me. Don't bother contacting me again or coming to work. I'm leaving you two to your bromance and going to get pissed." John shrank back as she grabbed the remaining bottles of booze. "Coming, Molly?"

"Too right." Molly snatched up a bottle pf champagne and any remark about their's being a superior brand withered on Sherlock's lips. He stood.

"Molly, you can't go yet! They haven't reached the part where they ask if there's anyone in the audience who can play the violin and I go up and effortlessly perform Tartini's _The_ _Devil Trill _sonata. All those double stops are really hard. I've had to practice!"

Molly advanced on him. "FYI most of the sick went into the pocket. And I'm glad. Your place or mine, Sarah?"

"Whatever's nearer," retorted Sarah and the two set off.

"Wait!" called Sherlock. "What about next weekend? There's no way John can get the deposit back at this stage." He received no answer. People nearby gave up trying to shush the scene and moved away. Shaking, John looked over at his furiously texting flatmate and sighed.

"Why were you so desperate to 'outdate' me, to win this, this thing? It seems such a waste of your massive intellect. And so petty and beneath you."

"I don't care about outdoing you, or winning anything. It was never about that."

"What, then," John was getting used to speaking though gritted teeth, "What the hell was so important? Tell me!" he yelled in the face of Sherlock's uncharacteristic reticence.

"I just wanted to go on a date with you." John hardly caught the mumble.

"Say again. Louder."

"I wanted to go on a date with you! Oh. Ohhh."

And a dazed Sherlock folded to the ground, to lie on his back with his fingers steepled under his chin, his wide-eyed gaze never leaving John's face.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6 Chapter 6**

**Title**: Double Date

**Author**: Cupcake-999

**Sherlock/John**. Rated T as I don't really understand the ratings.

**Summary**: This was in answer to my own prompt at sherlockbbc_fic. I can't figure out how to post it there. If anyone could help me, brilliant.

**Prompt**: John is sick and tired of Sherlock 'showing up' / ruining his dates (with Sarah?) and tells him he can only come along if he brings a date of his own. So Sherlock has to find a date (Molly?) to take. What happens? Trying to 'out-date' each other?

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. These characters do not belong to me. This has completely run away from me.**

**Chapter Six**

"And he's there. Knew you'd catch up eventually." John sank to his knees next to the supine figure.

Those hypnotic, catlike eyes narrowed at him and a long arm snaked out and forced him down flat.

"Shut up."

But the intent of the arm belied the words and it didn't matter because Sherlock was kissing him and John was kissing him back and it was blazing and glorious and noses didn't bump, teeth didn't bash and tongues fitted just right. But they soon had to stop because their lips curled up in smiles and it was impossible to continue. For once Sherlock's mercurial eyes were not laserlike but cloudy and unfocussed as they looked at John, still plastered to him in perfect, right, communion.

"I didn't know. I didn't think I was—I have little data in this respect, but…"

"Me neither. But it's fine. Maybe it's one of those things that just happens and you have to try it and see." Sherlock's marble-pale skin actually gleamed in the muted light. "Will you be able to get that stupid tattoo lasered off?"

"No need." Sherlock wetted a finger, grinning at John's indrawn breath, and rubbed at the black word. "Marker pen. Not even permanent."

"Why? Why all the youth speak, and the gallivanting about town?" He thought Sherlock wouldn't answer.

"I am a youth. I was working, and conducting field research into dating rituals. I got caught up in it. The young have the best dates. And drinks."

"And slang. Tz, anyone?"

The first crick-crack-whizz-boom startled John, and his flatmate? boyfriend? partner? tightened his hold before letting John slip onto his back to enjoy the bursts and blooms of colours high against the black, his shapely, pale fingers taking John's in a seamless entwine.

"Fireworks. That's what it felt like, here, that afternoon I saw you in the lab. I thought I'd had a localized seizure. It seemed the only diagnosis which fitted the symptoms."

So John took his place again curled over him, his hand over Sherlock's on that underdeveloped part of his partner, his heart, because he found him much more beautiful and rewarding to look at.

"How did you know, John, about me, I mean?"

"Are you kidding? You stood there, eyeing me up, fondling that bulbous pipette, started showing off for me, and within five minutes you'd given me a clicky wink and asked me to move in with you. Could you have been any more obvious?"

"Shut up."

And they couldn't help but kiss again, even more incandescently and wonderful this time, until their shared silly grins again stopped them, so John nibbled a trail along his lover's sensitive neck, just for the glory of making him shiver when he reached his earlobe.

"You know, John…"

"Probably not. What?"

"There's still the water taxi, the limo, and the overnight at the Ritz booked. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"That Anderson will have a heart attack when he gets his credit card bill this month?"

"And Donovan, Dimmock and Lestrade. Oh, what? They were annoying you."

"Yeah, they had it coming." John would have agreed to anything, nestled in the hollow of Sherlock's gorgeous neck and shoulder, lazily wondering whether to tangle his fingers in the glossy curls which were tickling him. But that would mean letting go of Sherlock's hand. "But seriously, how did you afford all the stuff?"

"I cashed Mycroft's cheque. The one for cracking the Whitehall problem."

"You've solved it?" John wasn't aware Sherlock had even looked at it.

"Will do. Got my best man on the job." Said man was pulled even closer.

"The butler did it," murmured Sherlock's best man.

"My thoughts entirely." His phone beeped and Sherlock read a text. John thought it was probably from everyone they knew, demanding confirmation of their coupledom to determine the winner of the "when will they actually…" sweepstake.

"Speaking of best man…" Sherlock held his phone for John to see, but it meant nothing to him.

"Who's WK?"

"Kate, of course. It's her nick. The plan to make her other half jealous worked – he's proposed! She's invited me to the wedding. Us."

John supposed if he had to come out as a couple with Sherlock, a royal wedding was as good a place as any. "That's nice. Sorry to sound crass, but I can't help wondering, as we seriously need cash and I just lost my job: will she pay you?"

"Don't be so sordid, doctor. Her mother will. It was her idea."

John was silent a while, lying there under the stars half on top of his fascinating, maddening partner but there was something he had to bring up.

"Sherlock, seriously, Richard the Third? What's all that about? And all that if-he'd-won-the-Battle-of-Bosworth AU fanfiction; you must have spent hours on it. You're up to the nineteenth century now."

"Yes, I suppose it is unhealthy. Compared to, oh, I don't know, your Biggles fixation, for instance. You're not even subtle about your pen name, Captain Whee John." But the tenderness with which he caressed John removed any sting from the words.

"That's below the belt."

"Umm."

"And that was a horrid thing to say."

"Um."

Things threatened to get very smutty very quickly, but then John felt a livewire of an idea shoot through Sherlock, who thrummed with the energy of it.

"John, us, we're Sherlon!"

"No, no. We're really not. We're JoLock. Everyone knows that. Everyone in Baker Street, at the Yard, at Bart's, Angelo's, the mini-mart, the Chinese… JoLock." His stern look and pointed finger seemed to shut the younger man up.

"Well, I did win the double date. I outdated you. You can't argue with that."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

So John did, quite satisfactorily, he thought, until Sherlock's gleeful giggles made it again impossible.

"Do you plan on shutting me up like that every time?"

"No. I've got lots of techniques. Medical man, remember? An ex-military man. With a pronounced kink for dominance, according to you. Which remains to be seen."

Sherlock's eyes opened wide. "Oh yes, John. You have to confirm if I'm correct in my surmise."

"I _said_, Which Remains To Be Seen."

"Oh. Ohhh!"

And Sherlock wriggled, or shimmied, but whichever it was he was out from under and standing on his feet, tugging John upwards. "Quickly, to the water taxi! Then the limo, then the Ritz!"

"Wait!" John pulled his hand free. "Sherlock, when you said just now you were a youth…I've never asked, but how young are you?"

"Ah. Young enough to make you what I believe they call a cougar. Problem?"

"No, that's, erm, purr-fect."

So Sherlock grabbed his hand possessively and they sped off in a crazy zigzag, dashing around people and leaping over picnics. John slowed a little as he pondered what the boat and limo drivers would think of Sherlock's starting a date with one person and ending it with another; his own unique version of a double date.

Sherlock urged him onwards. "Hurry, John! The game is on!"


End file.
